


Black Sails

by AmRye



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Violence, Child Neglect, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, Golden Age of Piracy, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Origin Story, Physical Abuse, Pirates, Prostitution, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-11-26 10:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20928800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmRye/pseuds/AmRye
Summary: Human Pirate AU. Straight from the gutter of society, a growing legend emerges, set on earning his brutal reputation amidst the seas of the New World. However, even bloodthirsty tyrants develop weaknesses. His just happens to be rather unusual.





	1. Port Royal, 1674

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Everyone loves a good Pirate-England fic, so I needed to write one of my own! This is more of an origin story for dear Arthur. The warning is for adult themes throughout and sexual situations that will come about in later chapters. Quite a bit of research went into this to give it a more realistic feel, so forgive me if there are some historical inaccuracies. Feel free to let me know.

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It is the wickedest city of the New World.

By day, the governor, a respectable Englishman, never ceased to express his infinite appreciation over the fact that his little section of Jamaica was one of the few ports that welcomed every practice (or non-practice) of Catholics, Anglicans, Quakers, Jews, and Atheists. Simply _unheard _of, even for the rapidly changing times. Or any other time prior for that matter. All were accepted in one tender, calculated embrace. Oh, how the buildings of the new religious establishments glittered under the sun.

By night, however; the town would cast her respectable shroud.

Shifting like a languid lover, eager to find the thrill of her next exploit. One in every four of her buildings were either a tavern, a brothel, or serviced as both. She was a haven for wrongdoers, for individuals looking to flaunt their plunder. Not one could resist her siren call. Every weak soul immersed themselves within the pleasure of sin at her come hither.

Most of all, however, the port was a sanctuary for _them_.

Pirates.

They were the loudest, the crassest, and the most demanding of all her patrons. The city more than protected their kind; it lavishly serviced to their every whim. But that is quite simply how it is. Whoever holds the wealth holds the highest privilege and seat of honor.

This particular building of the depraved port was one that provided a multitude of services as well as being located in the center of commerce. It offered lodgings, liquor, and the warmth of a whore: the Cross Keys Tavern and Inn. The port's prized possession.

And like every cherished structure that was a contribution to the port's economy, the establishment harbored its gems.

Mary Berkley, the legendary whore of Port Royal, was one of them.

With softly curled golden hair and delicate features displayed beneath alabaster skin, she was frequently sought after and had been on the receiving end of countless drunken and sober declarations of love. Of course, she _still_ couldn't compare to the notorious Mary Carleton—the self-proclaimed "German Princess" of the West Indies. Amongst gems, she was the Cross Keys' opulent diamond.

Mary Berkley was still somewhat set apart from the others, however. Of all the prostitutes in Cross Keys, she was the only one that had known the displeasures of being heavily swollen with pregnancy and had passionately opted to keep the babe. A decision that raised many brows and scorching resentments.

Most were more than careful not to get impregnated in the first place with their silent blend of herbal contraceptives—a practice forbidden by the Church. And if nature's misfortune were to ever befall them—as it would indefinitely turn away probable patrons—they were quick to expunge the indiscretion as discreetly as they could… as was urged by Nan, one of the establishment's caretakers.

And so Mary Berkley's Arthur was brought into the world.

The entirety of his young childhood was spent in Cross Keys and the surrounding port. Despite the prostitutes' aversion for Mary's decision in keeping the child, their distaste eventually formed into something akin to affection. Having an adorable child about the premises had its good points and they couldn't help but to occasionally fawn over him. That is, if they weren't otherwise being pounded into their beds or losing sight of the world with their drinking clienteles.

There were nights that were often too bustling for anyone—even his own mother—to spare him a glance or to ruffle his pale head of hair as many often did. Even if, now at eleven, he was starting to get too old for such public affections.

Tonight was one of those nights. The harbor was positively congested as were the moonlit docks. Nan bustled around the parlor, receiving the boisterous guests as best as she could, while also keeping track of the rapid flow of luscious payments filtering in, especially where it concerned the whores. It was nights like these that they actually made a profit instead of breaking even.

The air permeated smoke, liquor, and the dank musk of unbathed flesh. Despite the warm glow of their fires, candles, and lanterns that aimed to lure the somnolent traveler, the rank stench alone smelled like wicked decadence.

It was nights like these that Arthur limited himself to the front alongside Nan, his eyes fixed upon his latest work, a half-finished embroidered hanky. The busy handiwork was his clever little diversion that smothered dank moods. He had started on it earlier that evening when the first signs of nightlife had stirred. Already, it was beginning to display the onset of an intricate border, deceiving the oblivious onlooker into believing that it was worth more than just a piece of permanently stained cloth.

Nan snorted upon eyeing the mundane hobby that had currently taken his fancy. "Eh," she snickered lightly. "Don't you get tired of doing women's work?"

Arthur's nose wrinkled in the slightest at her comment, but his fingers never strayed.

"It is an art form," He replied with a low mumble, never looking up as he toiled with a difficult corner of the fabric. Nan only sighed. Her indifference quickly changed into something severe as she continued to eye him.

"Have you finished your studies like I told you to?" Her hands rubbed up and down upon her freshly starched apron. Unlike his actual mother, Nan often brought it upon herself to see to it that he was properly educated. He was a boy, after all, she frequently said. He had the right to an education, such an imperative tool of the world. Nan quickly discovered that he was sharp with his letters and reading especially, though at times struggled with numbers when they became too convoluted.

Never mind what _she_ was doing with such mental arsenal… When he once questioned about her unusually learned mind, her face broke in an enigmatic smile and stated that some things were simply meant to be taken to the grave. Arthur never probed about it again. It's not like he had anyone to tell, anyway, he would grumbled to himself.

"Yes… and some," he answered, still not looking up.

"Oh tush, lad… when have I ever taught you to be so ill-mannered," she scolded mildly, giving the top of his ear a light pull in displeasure.

Arthur lifted his face, a knowing smile threatening the corners of his stiff mouth. His green eyes shone with rare, mischievous light. "Oh, I have learned plenty from you, Nan. It's a wonder that I've managed to stop my ears to most of your filthy words."

Nan gawked at him. Perhaps she taught him vocabulary a bit too well… in addition to what she had just been accused of. Well learned, indeed. This time she thumped the back of his head hard, her irritated expression deepening.

"Now that's enough out of you! You'd best mind yourself else your mother will hear my report." Her vocal threat was ended with a harsh sigh, both of them knowing full well that it wasn't really a threat at all.

Arthur's hard gaze found hers once more as his fingers stilled. The needle jabbed into his finger when he attempted to viciously start once again. Muttering a soft curse, he slipped the damaged finger between his lips, sucking on the salty blood before any of it managed to stain his cloth.

"Like she'll actually care…" he said after a long pause.

Nan's eyes softened. She opened her mouth, about to say something no doubt, but seemed to think better of it before quickly shutting it. Her gaze grew vacant, staring off into the light of the tavern down the corridor.

"For having only eleven years under your belt, you certainly have a lot to say, young sir. You'd best tether your thoughts before someone else does it for you."

Feeling his childish mood darken, Arthur only returned to the work on his hanky, jaw now taut and hands more persistent than ever.

An ear-splitting shatter of glass resounded from the tavern followed by a chorus of bellows, curses, and ungodly oaths. Nan growled something under her breath about 'them bloody ingrates' before rushing out of the parlor. Unfazed, Arthur allowed himself to fall deeper into concentration, stifling unwanted thoughts and sentiments. His ears were used to much worse, as were any other that lived and worked in this section of the port's trough.

Pale movement entered his peripheral line of sight, but he didn't bother to look up. Whoever it was, they would soon pass and ignore him as always—the mindless blond child at the front of the whorehouse. The figure stood still for a moment and it began to advance towards him. Continuing to feign ignorance of the presence, Arthur pursued only his thought-numbing work. It was when he heard the faded rustle of the person's skirts did his ears perk in faint interest. He glanced up; expecting the face of his mother, but was instantly disappointed.

Instead of golden, her hair was brown. He vaguely remembered her face, so childlike and pallid that it nearly turned his stomach when he remembered who she was—the newest addition. And she looked like she could barely pass for much older than him. The edge of her bodice was torn and fresh bruises stained the pale skin of her throat. Her swollen lips thinned as neutral eyes connected with his.

"Is there something that I can help you with?" Arthur asked, probably a bit too harshly. Nan's words were still brewing in his thoughts.

The girl was still, her hands clasped together, toying with the tarnished thread of her clothing. He waited, struggling to reign in his impatience, hating that he sounded like a nagging adult, chiding and correcting the new labors of Cross Keys.

"…I suggest you get back to whatever it is you're doing before Nan returns. I imagine that she'll be less than thrilled if she finds you here of all places." He finished, eyes promptly returning to his work.

He'd seen many girls like her throughout the years. New and unpracticed. Still learning the ropes of the trade.

She bit her lip before finally speaking, a slight tremble within her voice instantly caused remorse for his curt behavior. "I haven't got anyone now. I-I was just wondering if you were waiting for someone?"

Arthur leaned forward, trying to hide the warmth that now spilled into his cheeks at her implication. She must not have known that he lived there… Well that, or she simply didn't recognize him. It took a moment of collecting himself before straightening up and clearing his throat. "Uh—no. I was most certainly _not_ waiting."

"Oh," she raised her brow slightly. "Well, could you pay if you had wanted to?"

His face heated again, though this time more in agitation than embarrassment. "No. I do not have anything on me. A-and even if I did, I thought that I had made myself perfectly clear. Besides—I'm only eleven."

She shrugged. "I'm thirteen."

Arthur faced the window as his knuckles whitened, mumbling. "Well, that doesn't mean anything now, does it? And it's still not right."

High points of color reflected on her cheeks. Her eyes glossed over. "It's not a matter of if it's right or not. You have no right to mock me."

He breath came a bit slower, feeling a slim flicker of nausea. "I am not mocking you. I just meant to… decline. That's all."

The girl seemed to think for a bit before answering. Her fingers no longer shook as her sweaty palms flattened against the folds of her dress. "Sorry. I don't mean to push. I just tire of filthy old men."

"Well, that's just something you are just going to have to get used to." He tried to sound more sympathetic than he felt, but honestly—just what sort of patrons was this girl expecting in a place like Cross Keys?

Before either could say another word, the door creaked open, revealing a beast of a man. His ornate overcoat was the hue of fresh blood lined with threads of gold. His height was of nearly unnatural proportions as were the dense limbs attached to it, bringing to mind the biblical story of Goliath to Arthur's limited literature knowledge.

The blood drained a bit from his cheeks upon seeing the man's highly recognizable wild mane of weather-tainted copper beard, covering nearly half of his sun-leathered face. A horde of roguish-looking men bearing all sorts of weaponry and barely concealed trinkets followed soon after, loudly bragging of their latest exploits. The garish jingling of their pockets sung the loudest, most heavenly tune to the employees of Cross Keys. Tonight they were going to be well paid.

The chestnut-haired prostitute was instantly horded by a group of the men, a target for their bawdy comments and late-night suggestions. Arthur quickly tucked away his cloth deep into his trousers' pocket before even daring to look towards the intimidating giant of a man. Without even trying, their identical emerald gazes connected, locked in a heady wordless exchange.

Arthur felt the weight of shame for the immediate fear poisoning his nerves. His heart pounded heavily as the man's dense scrutiny continued. Those eyes seemed more like acid now as they meticulously measured and eyed every scrap of the boy's flesh, judging worth. Like so many before him. And there never was a time that Arthur ever felt more humiliated or filthy than he did under this man's close inspection.

Every single time.

The visual link broke and the roaring volume of the tavern's clamors once more entered their world. The man look a long, devoted drink from his bottle, clutched tightly. His voice rang out, his eyes now wickedly amused as they danced towards the brothel end of the establishment. "Fetch me your mother, boy."

Without a sound, Arthur slipped across the room and down the poorly lit corridor, lined with closed doors. The air immediately thickened with the muffled chorus of gasps, grunts, and rhythmic thumps entwined with the musk of sex.

Turning to one of the larger rooms offered, he was greeted with a halfway opened door. The bed was empty. Immediate gratitude flooded through him for not having just accidentally walked in on his mother pleasing a client. It had happened once before and it was a horrid thing to have witnessed. Stepping into the room, allowing the creak of the door to announce his presence, he saw a pale woman sitting at her homemade vanity, delicately brushing through long, golden hair, facing a mirror with a crack charting its side.

"Mum?"

She didn't slow in her task, though her hazel eyes focused on Arthur's reflection alongside the crack of her mirror with a pretty turn of her lips. "Yes, darling?"

"You have a visitor," he muttered, his eyes not meeting hers.

She sighed, her fingers now running gently through her limp tresses. Arthur could faintly smell rose water, the movement of her hair releasing her signature scent.

"Is it someone important? I am sure to be otherwise engaged this evening."

God, he hated that tone, but held back unnecessary words, instead choosing to actually follow through on the stupid order.

"It's Captain Kirkland…" The silent refusal to call him anything else hung in the air. She froze, but even after he lifted his face to peer at her, it was easy to detect the uncommon rush of affection filling her eyes at the mere mention of his name.

"_James_ is here?" She beamed, the earnest energy glowing from her form truly made her radiant, like the soft luminescence of a pearl being brought to light for the first time.

Now fumbling with one of her tiny brass keys at the drawer of her vanity, she pulled out a tiny, amber flask. A bottle worth an amount that Arthur didn't want to think of. It was a little trinket that she only used for valuable customers… or special lovers. She dabbed a few touches of the golden liquid onto the insides of her wrist as well as along the crook of her neck. Exotic, imported scents of jasmine, lavender, and vanilla surrounded her.

No longer acknowledging anything else, she continued to smile her silly smile as the weight of melancholy melted away from her delicate frame. After straightening and airing out her skirts, she rushed out the door, nearly stumbling into Arthur in the process.

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The days dragged on as the never-ending flow of alcohol, sex, and extravagant spending continued. It always went on until the men were penniless. That was when they would gather up their drunken selves and go on more raids.

Arthur was currently curled up on his side upon the thinly upholstered sofa of Nan's private quarters, his mind in a hazy drift between sleeping and waking. His current dream consisted of the honeyed smells of baked goods that he frequently admired a couple of shops down the street whenever he was sent on errands, but rarely got to have. The subconscious half of his mind was more aware of the strong waft of Nan's morning tea—almost medicinal in the distinct way that she always brewed it. Arthur groaned, frantically turning to his other side to avoid smelling it further, facing the door.

Voices.

Loud voices on the other side of the wooden barrier pulled his mind through the sludge of sleep. Wiping his blurry eyes, Arthur slowly stood.

He heard Nan shriek while another woman, who sounded like his mother, sobbed, though the words were impossible to follow amidst the muffled sounds of what sounded like a scuffle from the corridor. The door shuddered violently as if something heavy were thrown against it. The boy winced, now fully awake and apprehensively staring at that pathetic piece of wood barring him from whatever was going on. The handle shook before the door was thrown open.

"WHERE IS HE?"

That deep voice boomed, rattling the pulses of everyone nearby. Nan was behind him on the floor, gathering herself up with as much infuriated dignity as she could. Her hot glare was on Captain Kirkland standing in the doorframe, red-faced and tall, his expression twisted fiercely. His eyes landed on Arthur before he smiled—a wide, glistening smile that trapped breath in Arthur's throat.

"James, please!" his mother burst into the room, her torn bodice disheveled, her eyes red and her cheeks splotchy and wet. Her fingers clawed into the side of his tense arm. The man's fists clenched. Arthur tried not to notice the purple bruises lining his mother's collarbone and a particularly nasty looking bite mark on the side of her throat, but the sight of them burn in the back of his mind.

"_Please don't take him_. You can't—he's the only thing I have left of you," she whimpered.

"All the more reason, Miss Berkley," the man snarled her proper title.

She blinked as more tears streak down her now ashen skin. Kirkland took her quivering chin tightly between his fingers, forcing her to gasp as she released his arm. His fingernails dug into her skin as he pulled her chin up towards his face—chillingly calm and composed.

Nan took a step towards them, but froze when James drew his pistol in her direction with his free hand. They stared at each other for a second longer—one with loathing, the other with lazy disinterest. He lowered the weapon, though it remained in his loose grasp as he turned his attention back to his lover. Like Nan, Arthur's legs felt weighted to the floor as the scene unfolds.

"You've had him for eleven long years, Mary," he crooned in mock affection. He was hovering so close to her, his copper beard touched her tear-glistened cheek.

"Eleven years. It's only natural that I eventually take back what's mine." He releases her jaw with a rough tug.

Despite the final word, her glazed eyes look up into his piercing, green stare.

"But he's still so young," she pleaded softly, her voice shaking. "Mayhap in another year or two?"

He strikes her hard across the face. Sharp rings from his fingers dug into her cheek. She cried out, stumbling back, her hand pressed immediately against her cheek and coming away with red. Two robust men entered the room, as if on cue by the languid wave of their captain's hand.

The sound of his mother's pain is what broke the fearful immobility over Arthur. Hot blood swelled through his veins as he grabbed the nearest thing, which happened to be Nan's favorite ceramic vase and lunged forward, about to swing it into the giant of a man, uncaring of the slim chance of actually harming him. The two other men seized the child before he got close. The ware slid from his sweaty palms. He vaguely heard it shatter, its pieces scattered across the floor.

Like an animal clawing its way from beneath the sick façade of Captain Kirkland's lazy arrogance, Arthur fought, tearing at the arms of the men that attempted to handle him. They moved down the corridor, slamming against walls, running into various pieces of furniture, most of which he tried to use as leverage. All in wasted energy.

The deep throated laughter of copper bearded Kirkland followed, observing the boy quite closely, as a predator observing skittering prey.

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	2. La Veillée

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The air was stale. Crisp saltiness hung heavy in the fresh Caribbean morning. The seamen were greedy for it, breathing in lungfuls once they had made sail, despite the fact that their bodies were already missing the perks of fresh ale, unspoiled food, and the warmth of a woman’s, or perhaps even a pretty man’s, touch.

Unfortunately, they had squandered all their pretty winnings and it was time to gather more. Such was the endless, monotonous pattern of pirates.

Captain Kirkland’s men were one of the few of Port Royal deportees that were actually glad to be rid of the city for the time being. None of them were men of preparation or commitment. Nothing interested them for very long, even the glamor of an extravagant hideaway. Nor could they be satisfied with being stationary for weeks on end, restless as their sorry arses were.

Now, even as they went about their duties as usual, none of them could ignore their newest addition.

Most of the crew could only see the prospect of future irritation with having a child on board. There were some reverent in the ways of superstition, who wholeheartedly believed that simply having Arthur aboard would bring inescapable bad fortune. Captain James Kirkland was not a man that believed in such things, for he rarely allowed such nonsense to be spoken aboard his _Sulfur Queen_.

Men of pride felt little concern for their fate. The sea was his personal trinket.

The blonde child with heavy brows had been locked away in a small cabin—one that rarely saw any use. Apparently even the iron hearted Kirkland wished to avoid the consequences of simply shoving a boy into the crowded hold to sleep with his grimy crewmen. A mistake to be avoided. Deep down, Arthur wagered that the Captain didn’t trust anyone.

Last that the Quartermaster checked in on the boy, he was in the same position that he had been in since the night before, huddled in the corner. The small candle provided had long since gone out and his food remained untouched, though it had apparently been a feast for the rats, if the nibbled mess on the plate was anything to judge by.

The Quartermaster stared at the boy’s head nestled between the tops of his knees, pale, scrawny arms wound tightly about his bent legs. He hadn’t budged when the heavy door to his cabin screeched open, allowing in a pool of light. Even poor light in a place like this was intense.

Gingerly picking up the wooden square from the boy’s side, the sturdy set man released a gruff sigh.

“And when will we be expecting you to join the world of the living, _menino_?” he muttered, his voice still a bit scratchy after an hour of yelling at new recruits. The men that they were replacing had greatly displeased the Captain and were no longer in service. The same would happen to them if they didn’t shape up quickly.

This time, Arthur looked up, an empty green gaze finding the man’s softer brown one. They stared at each other for several long seconds before either one of them spoke. The boy’s voice was worn and broken from misuse.

“Why are you here… sir?” Arthur had noticed the man’s fine clothing, the gold that embroidered his coat. Obviously, this was not just any crewmember.

The man stared at him for a moment before a ghost of a smile fractured his deceptively uninterested eyes.

“The others are far too busy to bother with someone like you, um pouco,” he spoke. The amused corner of his mouth remained. Arthur frowned, thinking the man may have been mocking him.

“Aside from that, I have been ordered to see you. At this rate, however,” the Quartermaster waved at the barely touched food upon the wooden square. “I doubt that you will be with us much longer. Just another corpse to dump overboard.”

Arthur grimaced, looking down at his feet once more. Conflict raged within, both wanting someone to talk to after being locked in a dark room for nearly two days and to keep his stubborn silence with anyone that had anything to do with the vile captain. Biting his cracked lip and tasting blood, he glanced back at the older dark-haired man; the swarthy brown eyes patiently waiting for his response. He looked kind enough… and he hadn’t been anything but genial since Arthur had been locked away.

Unsure of what to say, but not wanting the man to leave, he asked. “Where are you from, sir?”

The Quartermaster cocked his head slightly, his forehead crinkled. “It has been a long while since anyone has asked me that.”

Arthur waited, unaware of his wide-eyed countenance, interest slowly growing. The man fought the urge to chuckle at the boy’s expression.

“I was born in raised among the shipyards of Porto,” the Quartermaster’s eyes grew distant, a soft glow of fondness warming them from within. “It was through my father and his esteemed position that I was able to learn the ways of shipbuilding. He always claimed that it was through our ancestors’ that our sweat and blood branded the vessels used by the King and his fleet that initiated the Age of Discovery.”

Arthur was silent for a moment, struck by a sudden spasm of envy for this man who seemed to have already experienced so much and traveled so far while still being relatively young. He was reluctant to admit that he had no idea where Porto was. Maps were not among the few possessions of the Cross Keys and the inn’s patrons could never be bothered with the insignificant inquiries of a boy who was eager to know the sights and experiences of a well-versed traveler.

“That sounds exciting,” Arthur finally managed to say. “Then, why are you here of all places? Living like a _pirate_?” His voice unintentionally grew lower, a near whisper, at the last word.

Despite seeing several of their kind in and out of the inn, the word still felt a bit forbidden on the tongue, like speaking a curse on sacred ground. The image of his father’s face flickered in his thoughts—a man that was nothing more to him than cold stares and a trail of a distinct coppery scent.

The Quartermaster’s face hardened; the previously warm look in his eyes withdrawn.

“That is a long story—one that I don’t tell often.” A pause and two slow breaths. “Let me put it this way… The older you get, the more you realize how rotten this world truly is. And there may be times in which you find yourself becoming just as rotten as the things you hate the most.”

Arthur felt his chest constrict. “The world’s not all that bad… at least, I don’t think so…”

“Which is befitting of a boy your age,” the man remarked, a smile growing once more. He stood a bit straighter, as if to leave, his eyes again that playful gleam. “But don’t allow me of all people to destroy such pleasant thoughts.”

Arthur’s arms tightened against his chest and his expression soured. “I’m eleven,” he muttered. He tried to ignore how petulant that sounded. The amused lines in the Quartermaster’s face deepened.

“Still just a boy,” he smiled.

Arthur glared, but didn’t say anything further to defend himself. Instead, his thoughts diverged and he blurted the first question that came to mind. “What do they call you, sir?”

“I can give you better than that, little master,” the man continued to smile as he tipped his hat, a somewhat mocking flourish gesture of a respectable gentleman. Arthur decided right then and there that he liked him. He fought hard to control the smile at the corner of his lips, the first bubble of genuine amusement that he had felt in what seemed like ages.

“My real name is Demetrio Rodrigues Cabrilho,” he stated quietly, a sudden sadness now weighing on his smile. “These men call me Porto—as idiotic as that sounds. Many don’t see past my birthplace.”

Arthur repeated the foreign syllables in his thoughts, attempting to commit it to memory. After a moment of silence when he felt satisfied enough with his efforts, Arthur peered back at the man. “I won’t forget, Cabrilho… sir.”

In an instant, he felt a calloused hand ruffle his hair. The gesture was so quick and unsuspectingly affectionate; Arthur’s face felt like it was bathed in a fever as embarrassment twisted his stomach.

“I would call you Kirkland, but I don’t believe that you’re quite like your father enough to be called by his namesake,” Cabrilho chuckled.

Although Arthur could hear the dryness in his words, he couldn’t help the hot retort, ready and bursting at his tongue in that instant. “He’s not my father...”

“No?” Cabrilho’s face darkened further with his shaded humor. “Isn’t he the one that spilled into your mother all those years ago?” Another laugh.

Arthur’s face reddened quickly. Although his ears were used to dirty humor being spread within the walls of the brothel, these pirates were shameless. Again he reiterated his former words.

“That doesn’t make him my father. Fathers don’t leave for eleven years and then just take you away. He’s just a man who… who…” He paused, unsure of what label to put over him.

“…A man who fucked your mother?” Cabrilho offered with a careless curve of the mouth.

The boy gave him a hard look before resting his chin over his knees, huddling once again into the same position as before.

“Menino…”

Arthur moved his shoulder away from the outstretched hand. Cabrilho relented by withdrawing it, staying where he was, warm brown eyes watching.

“Why do you call me that? What does that even mean?” Arthur mumbled, his eyes following a seemingly interesting pattern in the floorboards.

“I call you that because you are a child.”

Arthur’s first instinct was to argue with him, but the way he said it didn’t sound demeaning, probably a bit sad, like when he told him what his real name was—for something long forgotten and for something that he may never have again. Arthur wondered about that, but wasn’t going to ask. He was resolved to find out for himself when he grew to be as old as Cabrilho.

Just then, another man burst through the doorway, his face red and shiny with sweat. “Porto! The Captain needs you. We’re ‘bout to do negotiatin’ with the blue bastards. _La Veillée_ is almost here.”

Cabrilho sighed before pulling down on the brim of his hat, giving Arthur a subtle wink. “Duty calls. Even if it’s the unsavory sort.”

The man at the door didn’t move, his small eyes trained on Arthur. “He’s comin’, too.”

“What for?” Cabrilho asked offhandedly, though Arthur could see the strain behind his expression. Obviously, it was usually a bad thing to bring prisoners while trading with others.

The other man merely shrugged, however. “Captain said so.”

“Very well. Looks like your leash just got a little longer, menino,” Cabrilho remarked, that odd expression quickly replaced with one of duty that he seemed to wear around his crew, hardened and as crusty as the callouses across their fingers.

Green eyes glared at the both of them before he steadied himself shakily—being hungry and having yet to acquire sea legs did little to help him along. “I’m coming,” he muttered.

Arthur stood carefully, still not able to obtain proper sea legs after having been stashed away in the dark. He grasped at the slimy, wooden walls for balance, the two men watching him with rather amused expressions. Cabrilho ordered the doughy man to go on ahead while he made sure that the boy followed him. As soon as the crew member left, Arthur pushed away from the wall and tried walking unsteadily, a fiercely determined expression plastered over his features.

“You’ll get used to it well enough soon,” the Quartermaster commented, still that ever-present amused smile curling his lips.

After a few pauses where the ship rocked a little too much for Arthur’s liking, with Cabrilho standing next to him, as still and steady as if he were born on a rocking ship. As soon as they entered the deck, the wide-open spaces, the deep blue sky matched with the blinding sun, Arthur had to close his eyes for a moment to adjust his vision as well.

It was absolute chaos on the deck with everyone doing something, yelling obscenities, and the large, burly captain standing at the center of it, garbed in the bright colors and flourish of a pirate. Arthur unknowingly drew closer to the Quartermaster, behind his billowing coat, as a child would hide behind their mother’s skirts. Cabrilho didn’t say a word about it, simply moving forward. Arthur took the opportunity to glance over at the grand ship that was alongside theirs, connected by ropes and walkways. Men were likewise bustling about their deck, shouting things that sounded like complete gibberish to Arthur’s ears, a language that was flowing and throaty.

When Captain Kirkland’s piercing gaze caught the outline of Arthur alongside Cabrilho, he scowled deeply. “It looks like you’ve found a starving, drowned ship rat, Porto. That’s not what I asked for.”

There was laughter among the crewmembers that caught drift of the Captain’s words. Arthur felt a fierce heat cling to his face and he suddenly became more aware of how loosely his clothes hung about his thin frame.

“The boy has refused to eat for the past few days,” the Quartermaster responded with that tight expression of duty once more as he found the captain’s eyes.

The copper-bearded captain’s gaze burned with a different sort of fury, perhaps similar to when his orders had been defied, but this time it was with his own child. He stepped forward and the Quartermaster stepped aside, leaving Arthur open and vulnerable in the captain’s wake. Arthur trembled when he felt the Captain’s cold fingers grasp at his chin and fiercely pulled his face up toward his.

“I will not see your feeble mother in you, boy.” His voice wasn’t raised, but the fierce and almost brittle way in that he’d said those words made it seem like he should be screaming his lungs out. Arthur snarled, pulling his face out of the Captain’s grasp, those identical green eyes burning at him.

He knew better than to say anything in response, despite how much he wanted to call that man every dirty word he knew. How dare he speak about his mother that way!

The captain seemed a little more sated by Arthur’s reaction and the angry scowl tempered into a simple frown. “Today, I’m bringing you with me to witness filth of a different sort. You will be seen, but not heard. But I want you to see and hear everything around you, understand?”

There was a long pause and Arthur knew that he had to respond, lest he wanted the intimidating giant of a man to do something unfathomably worse than any of his own imaginings. Arthur gave a curt nod, lips tightening and those eyes still burning as he dared to look up at Captain Kirkland.

With this boldness, brimming barely beneath the surface, the Captain gave him a grimace of a smile. “You’re my blood. Just as rotten. If not now, then you will be.”

And with the heavy sound of his boot, he turned to make his way over to the other ship with a group of crewmembers. Cabrilho glanced down at Arthur and motioned for him to follow closely after him. The boy held his chin up high despite the trembling residing somewhere in his chest.

Once he set food on the foreign ship, he felt as if he’d stepped into a foreign piece of the world. The language, both harsh and soft, being spoken around them, along with the outlandish fashions worn by the foreign men. The only figures on the other ship that caught Arthur’s attention was a lavishly dressed man with a large, plumed hat, an arrogant countenance plastered thickly across his face that only a captain with quite a bit of power within his grasp would wear. Or so Arthur assumed.

The other was off a younger man standing to the side, the feeling of his gaze intent enough to draw Arthur’s own eyes for that brief moment. Noticing the youth in his features, he could tell that the other was somewhere between being a child and a man, a period of transition and hormones. The teenager sported wavy golden hair tied back, and his eyes a calm blue, his features delicate. If not for the scruffy hair on his chin, he looked more like a girl than a young man, if Arthur were to be perfectly honest. Even though they were stained from sweat and grime, his clothes were a touch finer than a crewmember, enough so that Arthur wondered what his status was on _La Veillée_.

And upon noticing that he’d captured Arthur’s gaze for that brief moment, a sly smile tugged at the young man’s lips. That reaction jerked Arthur’s eyes away from his, warmth once more clinging to his skin.

His father wore a tight smile as he greeted the other captain in a language that Arthur could now decipher as French from his limited exposure to the world at Cross Keys, with a hint of stiffness after each elongated vowel. He wasn’t sure if he was more infuriated that he couldn’t understand or relieved that he wouldn’t be forced to delve into whatever it was that his father was trying to accomplish with the other captain. Either way, it didn’t seem to matter as Captain Kirkland grasped at the other man’s shoulder, a stiff friendship of convenience perhaps, and led them into the other captain’s own cabin.

Arthur shuffled, fixing the bottom of a shirt he knew was wrinkled and dirtied beyond hope.

“You look lost, lapin,” a voice, silky and humoured, spoke close to his ear, heavy in the same thick accent.

Arthur felt his pulse lurch as he turned to meet the same young man, or rather, not-yet-a-man that he’d noticed before, now standing next to him. The man’s eyes similarly caught on him when Arthur turned to face him, and no sooner were the man’s fingers at his chin, angling his face to view it better.

“And where did they snatch you from, hm? A pretty little thing, if not for the monstrous brows. Are you here for their pleasure? Can’t have a woman on board, can they?” he seemed to tut haughtily at that. “Silly English superstitions.”

Arthur’s cheeks burned at the man’s theories and he roughly swatted the man’s hand away, his eyes now the bright shade of anger.

“Piss off,” he spat.

Unfortunately, that didn’t have the desired effect. The man laughed, almost melodically, earning a heavy glare from Arthur.

“You’re a feisty one. A pity you’re not a bit older—otherwise, I’d be curious for a taste, myself.”

“If you ever touch me again, I’ll run you through quicker than you can make a sound,” Arthur retorted, not caring if he looked like a little waif with big words, but also not liking the direction this was going in, having already seen how pirates were whenever a potential conquest caught their eyes.

“And how do you intend to do that without a weapon, mon râleur?” The man teased, a certain amused sheen to his eyes now. “I’m guessing that this won’t be the last time we’ll meet. And I’m also going to wager that this won’t be the last time that I touch you.”

Arthur just scowled at that, since words didn’t seem to deter the French idiot.

“For future reference, if you ever want to send a hired knave after me once you acquire the means, the name is Francis. Bonnefoy if you want the full name, choupinette. It might be easier to track me down with it.” He winked in a subtle manner.

The longer Arthur stood in silence, watching the Captain’s quarters for any sign of what was going on, the more his curiosity burned. And since Francis seemed to be the only one talking to him at this point, Arthur decided to carve some use out of him.

“So… do you know what’s going on?” he mumbled.

Francis glanced over at him, and the corner of his mouth rose. “A name. Give me a name and I’ll give you details.”

Arthur frowned at that, but he decided to relent. The name of a nobody didn’t have much value. “Just Arthur…”

“Well, Just Arthur,” Francis responded with that lazy smile once more. “My Captain is currently selling your Captain some valuable information about a certain port that your Captain is hoping to ravage.”

“Which port?” Arthur’s attention perked at that, his heart sinking a little that he probably was going to witness Kirkland’s violence in the near future. He’d heard stories that fed into the man’s notoriety, and he never once wanted to personally witness any of those stories.

Francis seemed to be debating something as he turned his gaze toward Arthur once more. And he seemed to come to a decision not too long after, turning his attention back to the ship as he leaned his elbows along the wooden edge.

“I heard that it was Charles Town. It’s a far too popular target if you ask me… but something tells me that your Captain has something special in mind there. If anything, Kirkland is never predictable, and he never makes stupid decisions.”

Arthur loathed the tone of admiration in Francis’s voice, only because he didn’t think that the man was deserving of any measure of admiration. He was the slimy filth that lined the bottom of ships. However, for now, he swallowed his contempt and asked another question. “So… we’re heading to the colonies? Do you know of anything in Charles Town that he might be after?”

Francis paused, his eyes still forward, his voice lowered. “I hear that he has a personal vendetta against a prominent family there. A member of the council of the Province of Carolina, to be exact. I think it’s Jones. Something Jones, from what I’ve heard.”

And Francis’s eyes seemed to sparkle in that special, wicked way that followed a pirate whenever they were thinking something devious. “A lofty goal to be targeting a respectable councilman like that. Kirkland doesn’t aim low, that’s for sure.”

“Because he’s a bleeding knave who thinks that he has the world at his feet,” Arthur hissed, that trapped anger heating over once more.

“Doesn’t he?” Francis seemed to ask a genuine question, although the twist of a smile over his lips tells him that he already knows the answer. And Arthur couldn’t respond. Because, for all intents and purposes, Captain Kirkland did have the world on its hands and knees. At least _this_ part of the world. There was no law. No governance at sea. He was free to command it how he wished. Here, he has power.

And some of the anger seemed to melt away, or at least made room for other thoughts as Arthur pondered that idea.

It wasn’t long before the meeting seemed to be over. Captain Kirkland moved to make his way back over onto the deck of the Sulphur Queen. And curiously, the French Captain followed him with other Frenchmen that wore heavily gilded coats. When the two captains unnervingly turned to make their way over to where Arthur and Francis were standing off to the side, Arthur tried his hardest to stay where he was while Francis seemed to stand a bit straighter.

“This is my son, Arthur. From now on, he shall be accompanying me closely,” Kirkland remarked rather proudly to the French Captain who briefly gave Arthur some formal-sounding greeting that he couldn’t understand. Arthur’s gaze didn’t waver from the cooper-bearded man, not caring if he was being rude.

“You ask me how I’ll remain immortal?” James Kirkland’s laughter seemed to cut through the air, pulling Arthur close by the shoulders. “My legacy will live on through him. This is my immortality. Wait and see.”

As much as Arthur wanted to twist away from the heavy hands over his shoulders, he couldn’t move an inch, his feet feeling plastered heavily to the boards of the ship. The French Captain regarded him rather flatly, a hint of pompous amusement along his thin lips.

“Indeed. We shall see.”

It was the only words Arthur really retained from the Frenchman before he made his way back onto his ship, shouting orders in his native language which caused his crew to regroup. Francis followed as quickly as the others, giving Arthur one last glance.

Sure enough, once they made way, the French vessel now quickly becoming a speck fast approaching the faded horizon, Arthur heard the Captain shout their destination with a brutal sort of satisfaction.

Charles Town.

The French bastard was right, Arthur would give him that. They were heading into the colonies.

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	3. First Impressions

Arthur began to spend more of his restless nights with Cabrilho, as the Quartermaster chose to take the night shifts for keeping watch whenever he wanted time away from the other crewmembers. It was the only true time of solitude while most of the others slept. He was also keen on watching the stars and began to point them out to Arthur whenever he managed to join him on the nightly shift. Most of the flickering lanterns cast only dull illuminations aboard, which allowed for optimal viewing of the brilliant, light-studded sky. Cabrilho would repeat the stories to Arthur, attempting to commit these constellations into his young memory as a foolproof way of remembering with ease. Arthur enjoyed both the stories and the attention that he received, as adults rarely offered him much of it, reiterated by Cabrilho’s kind and rough voice, and his endless patience through the boy’s inquisitive thoughts.

“That’s like… always having a map with you, isn’t it?” Arthur whispered excitedly, leaning up on his tiptoes so that he could lean somewhat against the railing just like Cabrilho was. Cabrilho chuckled and reached over to dishevel Arthur’s already messy hair, something that Arthur no longer minded like he had the first time.

Arthur had been starting to diligently take his tasteless, slop meals as well, so long as he got to steal away to have them with Cabrilho, to greedily soak up that attention that he craved far more than food. His father didn’t seem to pay him any mind following when they’d left the French privateers behind. In a way, Arthur preferred that, because he was free to do anything about the ship without the fear of receiving some form of fear-inducing reprimand.

“Aye, it very much is,” Cabrilho murmured, answering Arthur’s initial question. “If you can read the stars well, then you’ll never be completely lost. This is particularly important while you’re out at sea.”

Cabrilho gave Arthur a curious glance. “You’re very well-spoken and learned for a boy who grew up in a whorehouse.”

“Nan, the proprietor, gave me lessons. She taught me to read, write, and to know my numbers. I know a little about great writers from the old world, too,” Arthur declared proudly. He knew that being learned wasn’t too common, especially in his station. “Cross Keys didn’t have many books, but I’d read the few they had over and over again. Sometimes I tried to learn new stories from the travelers, but they weren’t keen on my company while waiting for a working lady, obviously. I wish there were books here. It’s rather boring on the ship.”

Speaking about his home made his chest feel tight and Arthur forced himself to stare at the dark water so that Cabrilho couldn’t see the wetness pricking at the corners of his eyes. His fingers gripped hard at the wood of the railing before fiercely wiping at his eyes with the edge of his sleeve. He wondered how his mother was faring, if she was still just as sad as when Captain Kirkland had taken him away.

Off in the distance, Arthur could see the barely visible lights of what he assumed to be the city that the ship had been heading towards for a while now, although it was difficult to see with how oppressively dark the very early morning still was. Most of the homes would be dousing their lanterns and candles at this time. Only the street candles would likely be lit, offering poor light.

Arthur’s back immediately straightened when he heard the now familiar heavy footfalls of worn leather boots just behind them. A lingering shiver clutching his spine as he turned around, reluctant eyes upturned to meet the stern expression of the Captain, who was currently only acknowledging Cabrilho.

“We’re close enough to the docks. I trust you to scout the area ahead of time, as usual, Porto,” his voice was gruff and sounded rather grim. “We’ll be changing our sails before dawn. I expect you to be back with your report before the end of tomorrow.”

“Aye, Captain,” Cabrilho replied respectfully.

The Captain stopped for a moment and briefly eyed Arthur before tossing a small leather of what sounded like coins at Cabrilho, which the other man promptly caught. “Bring the boy with you. He needs a change of clothes.”

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Cabrilho allowed Arthur to wrap one of his old coats about himself, as he had nothing else to ward off the intense chill of the early morning hours where the sun hadn’t yet peeked over the bleak horizon. Cabrilho, himself, had changed into a set of clothes that would allow him to blend in well with the common folk milling about the streets. They were lowered into a boat to make their way discreetly onto the shores of the city. Arthur could see clouds of his breath and he huddled further into Cabrilho’s coat, pulling it over the redness of his ears and tucking in the tip of his steadily reddening nose as well. Cabrilho only smiled at him as he took the lead in rowing.

It would only be the two of them, and Arthur was happy for that, as he couldn’t tolerate anyone else on the crew. He’d even dare to say that he enjoyed the Quartermaster’s company. A part of Arthur was also thrilled with the prospect of seeing the world outside of Jamaica. His mother often spoke of England, where she once lived with a husband who frequently hit her. The prostitutes liked to talk about their previous lives in various parts of Europe or the Colonies. The outside world viewed Port Royal as corrupt and a cesspool—he knew that much. So, he was looking forward to seeing a city that was considered more respectable and cultured.

By the time they reached the docks and spent some time hiding their boat, Arthur felt a burst of energy and very nearly ran off ahead of Cabrilho if not for the manners that Nan had drilled into him early on to be eternally respectful toward anyone older than him.

“Come _on_,” Arthur groaned, exasperated. Cabrilho was massaging his sore muscles as he grinned and took off to catch up to Arthur who was bouncing a bit on the heels of his feet in his impatience.

“Wait, _menino_. I don’t want you getting lost. It’s a larger city than it looks,” he called after him, amused. Arthur did as he was told and stopped by one of the streetlamps, watching as one of the workers was dousing the candles one by one as the pale morning light started to filter into the streets. People were starting to leave their homes, filtering about on foot, some within carriages or on horseback.

When Cabrilho caught up to Arthur, he reached down to take his hand, holding it firmly enough as he led him down one of the streets. Arthur was frequently distracted by the various sights, smelling candy being made fresh in a sweets shop, and was particularly drawn to a toy shop with brightly painted carvings and plush animals on display. Whenever Arthur lagged, Cabrilho would tug at him a little more insistently to keep pace with his much longer strides.

Their first stop was at a clothing shop. Cabrilho was very convincing as he spoke to the shopkeeper about how his nephew had recently gone through a growth spurt and had matured everything he had. Arthur was then fitted with various linen shirts, knee breeches, stockings with garters, belts, and a pair of leather boots. After a moment, Cabrilho had also inquired after a warm coat.

Once they’d left the shop, Arthur was wearing what was bought and had stowed away the rest in a bag that was slung over his shoulder. He’d personally never worn anything so nice, even if these were still rather simple clothes. The sun was much warmer on his back now that it was later afternoon, the frosty air seeming to have thawed and melted away with ease.

“So, Cabrilho. What’re we supposed to be scouting for exactly?” Arthur hadn’t quite understood what the Captain had meant by his enigmatic instructions for Cabrilho. The Quartermaster seemed to pause with Arthur’s curiosity as they passed by a bakery.

“I’ll tell you what, Arthur… I want you to buy something for yourself here,” he tilted his head in the direction of the bakery, giving Arthur a handful of coins. “And once you do that, I want you to wait for me at that little garden across the way.” He leaned down to Arthur’s level, pointing just down the street where there was a smattering of trees, walkways, and benches. Cabrilho also pulled out a sheathed dagger from the inside of his coat, securing it at Arthur’s belt beneath his coat, well-hidden.

“This is just for emergencies. I trust that you’ll be able to defend yourself in case the situation arises,” Cabrilho winked at him. He ruffled Arthur’s hair once more as he stood up to his usual height. “Leave the scouting to me and I’ll come find you in the garden by the time the sun reaches toward the west.”

Arthur typically didn’t mind being left to his own devices, as that’s how life was at Cross Keys, but he was a little worried being in a city that he didn’t know, and by himself, no less. Arthur gave him a skeptical look. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Cabrilho smiled at him, giving him a squeeze at his shoulder before he left down the opposite street.

Arthur exhaled slowly before promptly turning to make his way into the bakery, the warm and spicy scent beckoning him to buy as much as he could with what Cabrilho had given him. After a moment of indecision looking over the various options, Arthur ended up buying a handheld meat pie along with a small bag that included a couple of small sweet cakes. He did have a sweet tooth, but it wasn’t often at all that he got the opportunity to indulge in such treats.

As he took a bite of his meat pie, he playfully jumped to avoid the various bumps and large cracks in the cobblestone as he made his way up to the public garden, making a game of it after a time.

Once he’d entered the garden, Arthur found a seat close to one of the center pools where birds would occasionally stop to bath themselves. He spotted quite a few wealthy ladies with their fine dresses and plumed hats, most of them accompanied by gentleman, as they strolled the garden. One of the ladies had stopped to coo over how adorable she found Arthur and had given him a penny before patting his cheek with her silky, gloved hand.

Arthur was flushed after that and he rubbed a little at his cheek from where he felt the perfumed tickle before slipping the penny in his coat pocket. It was then that he heard some steadily more audible sniffles from somewhere along the other side of the pool and flower bushes. He got up from his seat, taking the last bite of his hand pie and peered around the corner of the pathway in his growing curiosity.

He noticed a small boy sitting in the grass, half hidden by the bushes, tightly holding onto a stuffed rabbit sporting a velvet ribbon around its neck. The boy looked to be well-off, judging by the shiny black shoes he was wearing over bright white stockings, matched with the shiny buttons and ornate detail of his coat. He had a head full of blonde hair and when he looked up at Arthur as he steadily approached, he noticed that his bright blue gaze was muddled with tears trailing slowly down his reddened, round cheeks.

“Oi, what’s the matter?” Arthur asked gently, lowering himself down to the little boy’s level.

The boy looked at Arthur for a long moment before hiding half his face behind his stuffed rabbit’s head, although not hidden enough that he couldn’t continue to peer up at Arthur.

“It’s okay,” Arthur smiled a little, although he glanced around the area, wondering where his parents or attendants were. “Are you lost?”

The boy sniffed a bit at that as fresh tears sprung from his eyes, reaching over to take Arthur’s sleeve, tiny fingers curling into the linen. Arthur wasn’t at all used to seeing little ones, as Cross Keys had a strict restriction against it, particularly around the parameters.

“Here, I won’t leave you, alright? Not until your parents find you,” Arthur shifted, and he reached into his bag, feeling the boy’s fingers tighten briefly against his sleeve, as if not wanting him to move far. “Would you like some cake?”

“…Cake?” the boy said his first word to him, his eyes growing wide as he looked intently at what Arthur was doing now.

“Aye, I bought two. You can have one,” Arthur found the package in his side bag and handed it delicately to the small boy. The shopkeeper said something about how they were flavored with honey and spices, so the tops were sticky. The boy didn’t seem to mind and took a large first bite, honey smearing on the top of his nose in the process.

Arthur laughed, also reaching into his pocket to pull out one of the hankies that he’d half embroidered from Cross Keys. “What’s your name?”

“Alf—red,” the boy managed through the sticky mess in his mouth, he seemed to struggle a little with his r’s, with them sounding more like w’s.

“Really now? That’s a nice name. I’m Arthur,” he replied, wetting the tip of the hankie with his tongue and reaching over to wipe at the tip of Alfred’s sticky nose, much how like Nan used to do with Arthur whenever he would buy sweets and get them all over his face. Alfred groaned with the gesture, giving Arthur an irritated look.

“How old are you, Alfred?”

Alfred was still chewing his too-big bite, so he held up his thumb, index, middle, and ring fingers, the blue of his eyes brightened with pride.

“Four? Oh, I wouldn’t have guessed,” The corners of Arthur’s mouth rose a little, putting his bag to the side and pulling up his legs against his chest. Leaves skittered across the ground and Alfred made a move to protect his cake from getting nature’s debris on it.

After Alfred finished his bite, he tugged on Arthur’s sleeve once more with somewhat sticky fingers before holding up all ten of his fingers in the air, temporarily placing his cake in his lap. “Arthur, are you this many years?”

“More or less. You’re very close, actually. I’m eleven.”

“…’leven? ‘Dat’s old.” Alfred said with a smile, picking up his cake and taking another bite, the side of his head resting serenely against Arthur’s shoulder. The tears had dried by this point and some of the redness had faded from his cheeks.

“Well, it’s older than four,” Arthur laughed.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a long moment before Arthur listened to some of Alfred’s babble, a mixture of fantastical stories about his stuffed rabbit and the events that led up to him playing in the garden by himself. His heart tugged a little with the innocent conversation, an envious ripple with the thought of temporarily being in Alfred’s shoes—with the only worry being about what would be served for dinner tonight or when he might be able to play his next game.

Alfred finished the honey cake right when Arthur heard a familiar voice call out his name. He started to stand up right the same time that Alfred had grabbed fiercely at his sleeve to follow closely.

When Arthur rounded the corner with the flower bush, he nearly collided with Cabrilho who glanced curiously down at the two of them. “Ah, you have a companion now, don’t you?” He sounded amused.

“He’s—ern—lost, I suppose. I found him,” Arthur explained, feeling how Alfred hid behind him, only peeking out a little at the much larger and intimidating-looking man before them.

“Is that your father?” Alfred asked, his voice slightly muffled. Cabrilho chuckled.

“No. He’s a friend. He’s safe,” Arthur responded, reaching behind to press his hand over Alfred’s head, pushing back at his hair good-humoredly. He turned back to the Quartermaster, giving him a rather mulish look. “We can’t leave him here alone, not until someone finds him.”

“Very well, but we had better be quick about it. You know our time is limited,” Cabrilho warned. “Let’s start searching the garden, then.”

Arthur’s expression softened just a tad and he turned around to glance at Alfred. He seemed to follow along and he reached up for Arthur, a wordless request. Arthur sighed, “Alright, fine. Come on, then.”

He picked up Alfred, not quite expecting that he was going to be heavier than he looked. Then again, it’s not as if he were used to carrying around small children either. Arthur took the lead as they surveyed the garden and started taking some of the walkways where wealthy looking couples were strolling. It took nearly an hour through the extensive area before Arthur happened upon a rather frantic group of individuals all dressed the same, in what appeared to be servants’ clothing, calling out Alfred’s name. Arthur’s fingers gripped a tad bit tighter around the boy.

“Pardon?” Arthur got their attention, making his way over, Alfred bouncing a little against the side of his hip as he picked up his pace.

The woman shrieked her relief as she picked up Alfred from Arthur’s arms, both chastising him and giving him tight squeezes. Alfred made an insolent groan at that and was immediately and desperately attempting to wriggle free from the constraint of her plump arms.

“Thank you, darling boy,” the woman made a move to embrace Arthur as well in her suffocating hold, too relieved to think about propriety at the moment. Arthur was patient and not entirely pleased with the physical contact. She released him soon enough.

“It’s… fine… Just don’t lose him again. He was upset.” Arthur muttered, knowing that he was likely being a bit rude, even if it was toward a servant of a wealthy household. The woman didn’t seem to mind all the same. Alfred huffed a little once he slipped down from the woman’s hold, a pout forming when he turned back toward Arthur.

“Will you come home to play with me, Arthur?” he asked, tilting his head ever so slightly, his eyes a tad bit wider. Arthur snorted, wondering if Alfred pulled that face every time he wanted something.

“Sorry, I can’t… but I’m glad to have met you. Mayhap we’ll meet again someday,” Arthur murmured, without any inkling that he really would.

Alfred nodded, but he looked equally doubtful, kicking a little at the dirt with his shiny shoes. “Father never lets me have friends over.”

Arthur glanced at Cabrilho, who gave him a somewhat impatient glance. He knew that his time was up. Arthur pursed his lips grimly as he glanced back at Alfred, his chest hollowed. Alfred watched him back, disheartened. Biting his lip, Arthur took a step back wordlessly before turning around and making his way back to Cabrilho. Arthur was never good at farewells. He would sooner disappear than be forced to deliver one.

He stuffed his hands into his new coat’s pockets, looking ruefully at the Quartermaster. Cabrilho started to lead the way with a brooding Arthur at his heels, quickening his pace as they were on the main street once more.

“You’d enjoy it far less if we were late,” Cabrilho attempted to reason with him. Arthur didn’t respond.

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It was evening when they arrived back at the ship, with the Captain summoning both Cabrilho and Arthur into his cabin, a place that Arthur had yet to step foot in since he was taken. A part of him was in grudging awe over how oddly nice it was in there compared to the rest of the ship, the wood paneling was elegant, the furniture plush, along with various pieces of art tucked away between some of the panels. Arthur enviously eyed the jeweled colored books lining one of the shelves in particular. Kirkland apparently had something of a refined taste, then.

For the first time, Arthur was curious over the Captain’s background, where he came from and what led him to become the brutal creature he was today. He knew that his mother must have loved him for a reason, as she wasn’t an easy woman to woo, not in her profession where they oftentimes had to fiercely guard their hearts. Even so, Arthur was well aware that she was in love with him. He saw it in the tender way that she had looked at him whenever he would arrive, the care that she would place in her appearance. She never looked at anyone else like that.

Arthur only half listened to the report that Cabrilho gave, because most of them were about coordinates that they would be attacking from, specifics on the city, the manor, and various other points of locations that Arthur hadn’t seen due to Cabrilho scouting alone.

Captain Kirkland took notes, making some marks on one of the maps that looked to be of the city and shoreline. Arthur remembered that Charles Town, a burgeoning port in the Province of Carolina, used to be a favorite haunt of Captain Kirkland’s among many other pirates, according to the stories he’d heard at Cross Keys. That is, up until the councilman that Kirkland was revenging against decided to make a stand against him.

His bright green, vicious gaze glanced up from his work on the map, intensely focusing on Arthur for a long moment. Arthur immediately felt his palms slicken and his heart hasten beneath the scrutiny, but he stared back unflinching, not wanting to show any weakness.

“Have you ever killed, Arthur?” Kirkland gruffly inquired, the large man getting up from his seat and making his way forward.

Arthur felt cold as the blood drained a little from his face with the question, his lips losing feeling as they pressed hard together. He’d seen a dead body from natural causes before and he’d seen a few stabbings in the tavern connected to the brothel. His encounter with death was minimal, and certainly never at his hands.

“No,” he muttered.

Kirkland leaned forward, getting down to Arthur’s level, the proximity of his acrid stare making Arthur’s skin crawl. “I first killed a man when I was about your age.”

Arthur dared to made eye contact with him, feeling the curdle of disgust in his belly with the confession, and not making any effort to hide that feeling as he continued to stare hard at Kirkland. Whatever was in his gaze, it caused a deep laugh to rise from the Captain’s throat, an unsettling shine in his eyes.

“I want you to know how that feels, lad. How it feels to take a life,” he spoke evenly, clearly, before standing to his full height. Arthur could feel his fingers trembling a little bit and he closed them into tight fists at his sides to keep them still. He didn’t dare glance anywhere else, especially not at Cabrilho, the silent presence.

The Captain took a few steps toward the door, likely to alert the rest of the crew of his plans for the evening. “You’ll be coming with tonight. Porto will give you the appropriate tools.” An order for the both of them.

The door clicked shut as the Captain roared orders for his crew on deck. Arthur felt frozen. Cabrilho stood just as silently, unmoving. It wasn’t long before he could hear the cheers from the crew, resounding in their unified desire for blood and vengeance against a city that dared to be brave.

.

.

.


End file.
